Exploration
by imgoingtonamemychildsherlock
Summary: Norah moves into her aunt's building to experience life outside of America, but gets more than what she bargained for when she finds herself entranced by Sherlock Holmes. Rated M for sexual interaction. Sherlock/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi there! This is my first story on here, and this first chapter is going to be quite boring, but I do already have the next two chapters written. I will have those up as soon as I can. Let me know what you think. I'm always open to suggestions and criticism. Also, I am American, so I apologize in advance for my lack of knowledge of British things, sayings, news, etc. **

**I don't own anything, except for Norah, my OC. **

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I gripped my countertop to steady myself as I walked into my bathroom and I snuck a glance at my disheveled appearance. In one fluid motion, I was able to seat myself on the cold tile with my arms wrapped around my legs. While absentmindedly tracing the natural lines in the wood with my fingernail, I thought.

I was a nineteen-year-old American girl, living in the state of Arizona. My parents brought me into this world, gave me the name Norah, raised me in a loving home, and now it was them who were pressuring me to move out.

Although I was distressed with the thought of leaving home, I knew they were right. My hometown was too small for me and I didn't want to spend the rest of my life working at the bowling alley I had gotten a job at when I was 16. My parents wanted me to go to college, but I was unsure what I would want to study towards, nevertheless where.

I stood up from my seated position and walked into my room. Although it was a smaller room, I had somehow managed to make it appear even more cramped with the amount of rubbish I had tossed around. I had been too preoccupied with my predicament to care about the state of my room, and after a week of my unfocused mind, my room looked as though a tornado swept through.

I moved a pile of clothing from my chair and extracted my laptop from my backpack. The desk was covered in books, but I found a clear space to place my laptop. I accessed my social networks and looked at an earlier post, in which I asked my friends and family for advice.

'If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you go and why?'

I had gotten expected advice:

-'California: it has the best weather, hottest chicks, and gnarly waves.'

-'Australia, because kangaroos.'

-Italy or France, 'omg the food'/'omg the accents'

But none of these places appealed to me. I pushed my chair back and massaged my palms into my eyelids as stars began to revolve around the dark space. When I heard the click of a notification, my eyes flew open to the sound.

-'Deary, you should really consider London. London is absolutely lovely, especially around this time of year. Although the chill drives me up the wall, it's better than the dreadful heat you live in, and you'll get to spend time with your favorite aunt ;) You can stay in my building, as long as you don't mind occupying a basement flat.'

Hmmm. London. I hadn't even thought of the idea. I began to research the London area. It was beautiful; I couldn't deny that. The native language was English, but would I be able to adapt to a new culture? The schooling system appeared to be much more sophisticated than ours and it seemed fairly easy to obtain a student visa if I needed too.

I closed my laptop and sat on my chair for a beat, preparing myself for the oncoming slew of questions from my parents. I walked from my room into theirs, taking refuge on the couch at the end of their bed, which was occupied by the two of them, watching TV.

"I think I'm going to move to London."

My mother reached for the remote and muted the TV with a look of concentration on her face. Instead of her beginning the conversation, my father spoke first, with his British accent. "Are you sure that's where you'd like to live? You aren't just doing this because of me, right?" My father's desire to move back to his England home isn't much of a secret.

"No, it just seems like the most logical place to move. I've gone through the pros and cons of London and many other places. There are plenty of jobs I can get out there and London has some of the best universities I could attend. I believe I would actually really love to move there, even if it's only temporary. Aunt Martha even said there is an open flat in her building that I can rent."

My parents shared a glance and my mother's mouth broke into a smile. "And you're sure, darling? London is a difficult place to live. I was only there for a year and although that's when I met your father, it was still a quite difficult year. We're more than willing to help you. We've been saving up for your future since you were born and we're ecstatic to hear a plan forming."

I smiled. "Yes, I'm pretty sure this is what I want to do. I just need to make sure this is do-able."

My dad offered to call my Aunt Martha for me in the morning, but I declined. "I want to try to organize everything by myself. It's about time I started being independent."

My parents agreed and they seemed very excited for me. After fine-tuning my idea, we were able to change my 'pretty sure' into an 'I'm moving to London and I can't wait.' Because my father is from England, and in the off chance that my mother ever let him uproot our family, he had already gotten me dual citizenship.

I walked back into my room and exhaled a sigh of relief. I knew what direction my life was headed. I laid down on my bed and made a mental note to begin the tedious task of packing, after calling Aunt Martha of course. I fell right to sleep and dreamed of all the possibilities London could give me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry, my story is starting off quite slowly, but I'm trying to progress as quickly as I can.  
Also, from what I researched, I'm pretty sure Mrs. Hudson's first name is Martha. Let me know of any discrepancies. **

**Once again, don't own anything except for my OC. Thank you so much for reading. If you have the time, I'd appreciate reviews! :)**

* * *

Less than a month after making up my mind, I found myself at my Aunt Martha's front door in the heart of London. While trying to steady my hand, I rang the doorbell once and knocked twice.

As soon as the door opened, my aunt warmly embraced me, and for the first time, I found myself feeling absolutely sure of my decision. She ushered me inside and lead me into her kitchen to make me some tea.

"How did your trip go? I bet the traffic was dreadful."

"Oh, it wasn't too bad. I'm just having a hard time adjusting to cars driving on opposite sides of the road." I chuckled and took a sip of my tea.

Before she could speak, a voice rang throughout the building. "Mrs. Huudsooonnnnnn!"

"Oh dear." She set down her tea and shook her head. "I hoped to get you moved in before introducing you to my other tenants. Well, I'll show you to your flat so you can get a bit more settled, while I go deal with that." She stood, led me to a door, and explained which keys on the key ring went to what.

"Mrs. Hudsonnnnnnnn!" The voice rang out again. I shot my aunt a questioning look, wondering why this man was calling for my aunt like she was a servant. She sighed, shook her head, and led me inside.

My flat was the perfect size for me. There was a small living space that had enough room for a small couch and a round table that doubled as a coffee table and a kitchen table. The kitchen was opposite the couch, complete with used appliances. I walked through, leaving my aunt to disentangle her keys, observing the decor; warm, friendly, cozy, etc. On the same side of the flat as the couch, I walked through the door to inspect the bathroom. It was small and simple enough, but to my surprise, the base of the shower was a quite spacious tub. I smiled at the thought of warm, relaxing baths on cold nights. Next, I made my way into the bedroom. Although the bed was stripped, the room had the same homey vibe as the rest of the flat. My closet was sizable, but my eyes were drawn to the television sitting on the chest of drawers across the room. Taped to it was a picture of my aunt holding me when I was a baby and I couldn't help but smile ear to ear. Aunt Martha peered through the doorway and smiled as well. "I wasn't sure if you were one to hang family pictures, but I wanted you to have that."

I walked over to her and embraced her. "Thank you." I pulled away and we made our way to the door. "Thank you for everything."

Aunt Martha handed me the keys. "Not a problem dear. I'll let you get settled. The moving truck you scheduled should be here soon with the rest of your things. I'm going to pop upstairs for a second, but find me when you're done." And with that, she left.

I collapsed on the couch and closed my eyes, relaxing in my new home. I almost found myself drifting off when I was snapped back into reality by a quite loud scream upstairs, and through my panic, I knew the scream was my aunt's.


	3. Chapter 3

**So sorry about the delay. Thank you so much for reading.  
Also, I don't know the exact layout of Baker Street, so bear with me please. :)**

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Less than three seconds after I heard my aunt scream, I found myself bounding up the stairs, taking the stairs two at a time. It was only when I reached the doorway to the upstairs flat that I realized I was essentially inviting myself into my neighbor's flat, but I didn't care. The shout had occurred directly above my sitting area, and with calculations, I observed that the kitchen should be in the correct place. However, instead of being a kitchen area, I found myself looking at a table covered with specimens and other scientific equipment. There were fingers, toes, and eyes whose hosts I could not identify. My aunt was standing in front of the open fridge holding a-oh my gosh, I couldn't believe my eyes, it doesn't get much more British than this- handkerchief to her mouth. I looked past her, into the middle shelf, and I was only barely able to stifle my scream.

There was a head- a human head- sitting there. My brain could not process what I was seeing, and my mind was searching for answers. Why was there a head in a fridge? Was this the head of a murdered man? Was this the head of my neighbor? If this was not the head of my neighbor, WHY THE HELL DID MY NEIGHBOR HAVE A HEAD IN HIS FRIDGE? I began to have an internal panic, not knowing what to do. Was my neighbor a murderer? Or was he just sick and twisted? I began to calculate on a scale of 'possible' to 'impossible' how quickly I could find another building to live in. I looked from the fridge to the hallway and I was caught of guard for a second time, but this time for a very different reason.

This man looked like a model. There was no other way to describe his perfect features. His porcelain skin looked as though age had not touched it. In contrast, his hair was a dark brown, with natural, springy curls. His eyes were a ying-yang of blue and green. He was tall and thin, but quite fit. He held himself with an aura of importance, and his confidence was mirrored by his wardrobe; shined black shoes, black slacks, and a black blazer over his cloud colored button-down shirt. Honestly, I was in awe.

And then his eyes met mine.

The shock of electricity through my body brought me back to reality. He looked me over briefly and then to my aunt, studying her body language. In one fluid motion, he closed the refrigerator and turned my aunt around as means of moving her out of the kitchen. "Now Mrs. Hudson, let's get you back downstairs." God, his voice was even flawless.

"Sherlock!" She objected. "Why do you have a head in your fridge?!"

The man- Sherlock?- rolled his eyes and said matter-o-factly, "It's for an experiment."

I stared at him in confusion. Experiment? "Shouldn't experiments like this be done in an actual lab?" I asked timidly.

His eyes snapped to my face, and it seemed as though he was only truly processing that I was standing in front of him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Once again, thanks so much for reading. Reviews are always appreciated!**

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His eyes flew over my face, reading me. I suddenly took notice to of my expression and quickly expelled the emotion from my face, feeling threatened. Who was he to judge me? What was he getting at? I shifted my feet uncomfortably and met his gaze. He then snarled at me, "Who are you?" No manners and possibly psychotic? This man may be visually pleasing, but the connection from this man to the horror in the refrigerator was like breaking glass.

My aunt moved towards me and grabbed my hand. It seemed as though she was trying to shelter me from him. "This is Norah, my niece. Good night Sherlock," she said defiantly.

And with that, she was leading me back downstairs, into her flat's kitchen. She went to put a kettle on and I couldn't help but wonder if it was a subconscious act. Once we were seated together at the table with tea in hand, I felt comfortable enough to begin talking, but as I opened my mouth to speak, the front door opened.

A man walked through the entranceway, holding numerous plastic bags from the supermarket. Aunt Martha got up to assist him and brought him into the kitchen.

"Oh, hello. You must be Norah. Mrs. Hudson told us you'd be moving in soon. My name is John. John Watson." I stood to shake his hand- firm, yet warm, despite the chill in the air outside. He gestured towards the upstairs flat. "I live in 221B with my flat-mate, Sherlock Holmes. Have you met him?"

I was stunned to find out that this man- with his warm smile, sandy brown hair, cream colored wool sweater, jeans and sneakers- was living upstairs with the (murderous? psychotic?) man who seemed to be his opposite.

My aunt spoke quietly and sadly, while making a cup of tea for John. "Briefly. I think tonight is a danger night."

John seemed to deflate and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He sighed, "Do you know what he's doing?"

"The clot put a bloody head in the fridge."

John looked at my aunt in disbelief, and slowly shook his head. "Well, I guess that's Sherlock for you."

I couldn't take it anymore. "Can someone please explain this to me? Why is this normal? Is there something wrong with that man?"

John seemed taken aback, but he quickly regained his composure. "Sherlock is a detective. A consulting detective. He gets... bored, between cases. Manic, even. I haven't been upstairs yet, but if he's having a 'danger night,' you'll want to avoid him."

I nodded, but I was still wary. "Honestly, he isn't violent or anything? Am I... safe?"

John nodded and smiled. "Oh, of course. Sherlock has saved my life countless times. He's a good man."

I don't know if it was wise, but John seemed like a trustworthy person. I looked to my aunt and she smiled reassuringly at me. "We'll get you better acquainted with Sherlock tomorrow. He's not as much of a monster as he seems." She turned to John and smiled. "Make sure he's on his best behavior."

This was the end of our little meeting. John stood, grabbed his shopping bags, and made his way up the steps. He turned halfway up the landing, and said, "Oh, and it was a pleasure to finally meet you, Norah." I smiled to him, and replied, "Same to you. Goodnight."

Aunt Martha led me towards my flat just as my moving truck appeared out front. She offered numerous times to help me set up, but I declined. "This is my first place. I want to set it up by myself." She hugged me and wished me a good night, while I began the time-consuming task of unpacking.


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm going to work on updating the next three chapters as soon as I have them proof-read. Thanks so much for reading. And thank you so much to ShellyMay for being my first review! I was literally smiling at my computer like an idiot. :)**

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Bored. Bored seemed to describe Sherlock's mood for the past few weeks. Day after day, experiment after experiment, nothing seemed to ease his boredom. For lack of a better term, Sherlock found himself in a rut.

But when she walked in, he almost jumped for joy. It wasn't as though he ignored Mrs. Hudson, but it wasn't necessary to listen to every word she said. She had said her niece would be moving in within the next few weeks and Sherlock had welcomed the idea of a change in the mundane environment. But this girl is not what he had in mind.

She was average height, but quite voluptuous given her frame. Her deep brown hair was smooth and straight, despite the constant moisture in the air. But it was the eyes that got him. Her eyes were a chocolate brown color, but just around the inner rim, she had a burst of gold, which gave the appearance of the sun peering around an eclipse. And boy, was he blinded by it.

Within the first second of eye contact, Sherlock found his body displaying the tell- tale signs of attraction. Although she couldn't keep her eyes off of him while he ushered Mrs. Hudson out of the kitchen, she didn't appear to show the same signs when he got the chance to observe again.

Then, she had spoken. It was just one little question, her voice barely audible, but dreamy nonetheless. He wanted to have a conversation with her or have her read him a story. Anything that would allow him to study the way she measured her words before speaking. He wanted to hear every vowel and consonant, spoken within each syllable that filled the space between her breaths. His heart began to thud quickly in his ears.

This was something new to Sherlock. However, he was not thankful for this change and he instinctively pushed his emotion away. _'Sentiment is a defect of the losing side_,' he reminded himself.

Instead of handling his emotions and returning to his normal personality, he had gone too far into 'robotics,' a term John had used many times in Sherlock's company. Although he already knew she was Mrs. Hudson's niece, he still wanted to ask who she was, as a way of beginning conversation (something he would've deemed pointless on any other occasion). Instead of posing his question properly, he had snapped at her like a rabid dog. The look of displeasure and disgust on her face was enough of a signal to Sherlock that he had blown it.

Sherlock retreated into his room after the encounter, analyzing his current behavior. His pulse had begun to slow, but he still found his cheeks flushed with warmth at the thought of her. He brainstormed a few terms for the diagnosis and 'lovestruck' seemed to be the most accurate representation of his state.

He heard John come home shortly after, but he did not come upstairs directly. '_Ah, he's laying on the charm_,' Sherlock thought. And then Sherlock experienced another emotion that he had fought so long against: romantic jealousy. Sherlock made his way to the couch, pausing by the open doorway to listen.

"If he's having a 'danger night,' you'll want to avoid him." John's words drifted up the stairs. Sherlock rolled his eyes. '_Of course. Yet another thing to steer her away._'

He stomped over to the mantelpiece and looked inside the skull perched atop for his emergency stash of nicotine patches. Tonight seemed to be a two-patch night, but alas, there were no patches to be found. '_John. Damnit._'

He needed something. He made his way to the kitchen and decided to put a kettle on. Although tea was less desirable, he knew this was the best he was going to get, and he could also make John a cup to deter him from questioning Sherlock's odd behavior. Busing himself with making tea, he began to ponder. Tonight was not a danger night. Sherlock knew that. She must never see him on a danger night.

'_Oh, why do you care what she thinks?'_ he thought angrily to himself. '_She's just a girl.'_

'_But she isn't just a girl_,' he began to argue with himself. Molly was just a girl. Sarah was just a girl. Sally Donovan was just a (horrid, despicable) girl. Even Irene, The Woman, was just an attention- starved girl in comparison to her. And he didn't even know her name.

"It was a pleasure to finally meet you, Norah," John said, halfway to the flat.

Norah. Norah. Norah. Latin for 'honor.' He took his place in the armchair near the window and steepled his hands under his chin. _Norah._ It seemed fitting. Nohrrrrrr-ahhhhh. Norah. He smiled and sipped at his tea.

John walked in the door and went from a ray of sunshine into a storm cloud within moments. Glaring at Sherlock, who pretended to not notice his flat mate, John made his way into the kitchen and set the groceries down.

"So. Do you want to tell me what happened earlier? Or would you rather get rid of the bloody head in our fridge first?!" John shouted.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and spoke as his fingers rapidly typed. "The head will be gone within the hour. Experiment. Molly's."

John nodded his head, but still spoke sternly, "And what about Norah? She seemed pretty... shaken up about you." He walked towards Sherlock. "She practically asked if you were a psychotic murderer! You can't just have these things lying around in our flat. I know you like to experiment, but you need to know where to draw the line."

"You're right, John."

John looked taken aback. He stood near Sherlock, still in a fighting stance, and he looked as though he missed the blow. "What?"

"You know what I said," Sherlock said, leaving the armchair. He walked into his room. His mind was too occupied with _her_ to continue a conversation any longer.

Sherlock sat on his king sized bed and contemplated the woman living in the flat below. Even though she had only been present for less than a day, Sherlock already made room in his mind palace for information on her. He made notes of all the things he already knew about her and made placeholders for the things he desired to find out. She was fascinating to him and Sherlock was doing his best to not get caught up in his infatuation.

He was stationary for hours, thinking, and his concentration was finally broken when, through the silence of the flat, he heard her playing music.


	6. Chapter 6

**Just a note, this chapter switches point of view. The changes will be broken apart by a horizontal line. **  
**Thanks so much for reading! And thanks so much to ShellyMay and Dez10d2Rite for their reviews! I appreciate them so much. :)**

* * *

It was after midnight and Sherlock was pacing in his room. _'Should I go downstairs and interact with her? Or should I remain as far from her as possible? Should I take the risk of sentiment? Or should I bury this emotion as I've done in the past?_'

Through and through, emotion proved to be a weakness. Romantic relationships were pointless in Sherlock's eyes. He observed other romantic relationships and they all became futile in the end. All the effort and all the time didn't matter in the end, because none of them ever 'worked out.' Why would this be any different?

'_No matter._' He shrugged it off. She would just have to be his neighbor. That's it. He smiled to himself. '_I'll go talk to her and be neighborly._'

He silently maneuvered through his flat, and made his way down the stairs, avoiding the squeaking boards. He stood in front of her door, took a deep breath, and knocked.

"Come in!" she called over her music. He ignored the fluttering sensation in his abdomen and opened the door.

* * *

It was around midnight and I was still arranging my things. Although my aunt had already mostly furnished my flat, I still had the tasks of organizing my clothing, arrange my linens, hang my photographs, set up my painting corner, and other miscellaneous tasks that were taking longer than expected. I was standing at the table, tackling the pile of intertwined towels and blankets when there was a knock at my door. Although it was a late hour, I assumed it would be my aunt. "Come in!" I called, turning down the music I had been playing.

To my surprise, when I turned around, the perfectly terrible man was standing in my doorway, staring at me. My jaw dropped in a mix of shock and terror, but I did my best to disguise my panic, remembering John's words of faith in this man. He seemed to read my hesitant body language and began to speak very quickly.

"I'm sorry for shouting at you earlier. I was in the middle of an experiment. I had no intention of frightening you."

Although I was still frozen stiff, I nodded my head slowly. He reached his hand out towards me, offering a handshake. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective." The handshake threw me off even more. His hands felt nothing like John's. They were cold and stiff, but gentle and strong simultaneously. It was only when he pulled his hand away did I realize I had been holding my breath.

I shook my head, as though I was clearing out my thoughts, and steadied my breathing. I held out my hand to the right, inviting him inside, and closed the door to my flat.

He drifted past the couch and began to look at the small bookshelf I had just put in order. With his attention on the various spines, I was able to take a thorough look at him. Getting past the obvious of him being excessively attractive, I brought my attention to his body language. This man automatically held himself with confidence, as I had observed earlier, but the nervous tapping of his foot didn't go with his stone cold exterior. Was this man nervous to be in my flat? I almost laughed at the absurdity. I was just a new neighbor to him, just his landlady's niece. I wasn't someone to get your 'knickers' in a bunch over.

I broke my stare and reached into my bag, fishing out my pack of cigarettes and my lighter. Grabbing these and the nearby ashtray, I made myself comfortable on the couch. I sparked the flame and inhaled the smoke, closing my eyes as the nicotine calmed me.

"You don't seem like a smoker."

I opened my eyes and found his mesmerized on the burning ember of my cigarette.

"I- I'm not much of a smoker," I stammered. "I only smoke occasionally."

While I spoke, his eyes swept over my face, looking for information. I smiled at the attention and brought my hand down from my mouth, ashing the cigarette. Sherlock took a seat next to me, and it being a small couch, we were only inches apart. He held his hand level to mine, and took the cylinder from my grasp. He mimicked my grip and took a drag. It was difficult for me not to obsess over the fact that his mouth was touching the same filter my mouth had just been kissing. '_Get yourself together._' He took another drag and ashed the cigarette, following my example.

"Me too," he said huskily.

To avoid him seeing the blush that was spreading across my cheeks, I stood to grab myself a new cigarette. I didn't think I could handle sharing one with the level of attraction I was feeling towards this man. I returned to my seat, emotions in check, and turned towards Sherlock, who was flicking my lighter. He sparked the flame in my direction and I leaned in, putting the cigarette in my mouth. Once again, I breathed in, coaxing the flame to remain an ember on the end of my cellophane ring. I turned away from him to exhale, but I still felt his eyes on me. I tried to keep the heat from my warming my cheeks.

"So you're a consulting detective? What does that mean exactly?" I asked him, curiosity egging me on.

"I assist the police when they're out of their depth."

"But what can you do that the police can't?"

He looked at me, smiling. I swear my heart skipped a beat. "I'm better. They don't notice things like I do."

I nodded. I took another drag of my cigarette and counted the seconds until he spoke again.

"You're American."

I smiled. It wasn't a question. Sherlock was about to show me the skills that gave him the title of Consulting Detective. "Yes."

"You lived on the West Coast. You'd be showing small signs of fatigue if you were from the east coast."

I nodded. "What's your excuse?"

"Sleeping is boring," he continued with his observations without missing a beat. "You're either going to university for a degree in the arts or a degree in psychology."

I let out a small laugh. "Yes. And you inferred that from my bookshelf and from the canvases in the corner."

He nodded, and spoke quickly, "John blogs about our cases. Although I find it rather annoying, he does decently portray the way I deduce in an actual case."

We both reached for the ashtray on the coffee table at the same time, bumping hands. I felt a tingle, like electricity from the touch. Sherlock however, flinched as though I had actually shocked him.

"Are you okay?" I asked, ashing my cigarette again.

"Fine." He itched the back of his head. I recognized this to be a nervous habit.

I took one last drag, put out my cigarette and handed him the ashtray. He followed my lead again and put out his cigarette as well. I looked around the flat, realizing I still had much to do before I could go to sleep. I failed to stifle a yawn and stretched. "Well, I should probably be getting back to unpacking," I said, but Sherlock made no move to get up. Feeling awkward, I quickly said, "You don't have to leave if you don't want."

He seemed to be preoccupied and he only acknowledged that I spoke with a nod. I let him be and was oddly thankful for the silent company. He was preventing me from feeling lonely, even if he was about as interactive as a statue.

I lost myself in the organizing, first the rest of my linens and then with my painting corner. I was trying to not think of the fascinating man on my couch. I kept my eyes glued to my tasks.

After about an hour, I had accomplished organizing most of my belongings. Last but not least, I needed to set my bed. My aunt had done me the favor of purchasing a new mattress for me and I happily unwrapped it from the plastic like a Christmas present. I took the fitted sheet and marveled at how it fit just as well on a new bed. Next, I waved the loose sheet, which was as deep of a crimson as blood, and smoothed out the creases. Finally, I took the comforter and laid it across. I was tempted to lie in my well-made bed, but I hadn't forgotten about my dear neighbor, Mr. Holmes.

I strode out into living room and found the world's only consulting detective curled up on my sofa, sleeping quite soundly. Now, I try to avoid awkward situations as much as possible, but how was I supposed to make it out of this one unscathed? Do I wake him and make him feel foolish for falling asleep on my sofa? (Or bring attention to the fact that he was comfortable enough to actually fall asleep in my flat?) Do I let him stay there? (Would he be the kind to stay or leave without a trace in the morning?) I internally struggled for a good bit before ultimately deciding to let him stay. I mean, kicking him out wouldn't be neighborly. And didn't he have sleeping problems? Well, not_ sleeping problems_, but he could probably use some shut-eye, right? Wouldn't it be rude if I woke him now?

I walked closer. He did appear to be in a deep sleep. He was curled up on his side, facing into the couch. His shirt was stretched tightly across his back. I could make out every vertebra, every muscle, and every slow breath...

I turned off the overhead light and thankfully, Sherlock didn't stir. I took care of my bathroom needs and I walked back into my room. I left the bedroom door open in case Sherlock needed something. I tuned off the light, plugged in my phone to charge, and fell asleep almost instantaneously. My dreams were full of the silhouette of a man with piercing eyes and a robotic voice, but they weren't all unpleasant.


	7. Chapter 7

**Once again, thanks so much for reviewing, favoriting, and reading. Also, don't be afraid to let me know of any grammar mistakes or discrepancies. I know this chapter is a bit short, but I will be updating again with another chapter directly after I post this one.  
Oh and just to be warned, there is a sex scene. I tried to be as tasteful as possible. I've never written one before and I'm very nervous about it. **

* * *

Sherlock felt the evening was going well. He had watched enough television and witnessed interaction between John and other women to be able to behave accordingly. He kept his temper, he smiled at her, and he even flirted with her. He was at his peak, and was giving all his effort. '_Perfection_,' he thought. _'Working at full capacity and I haven't slept in 3 days._'

But his perfect stride was shattered when he felt her skin against his.

He blames the cigarette. '_After being without physically smoking for so long, the chemicals had a greater affect on me,_' he deduced. It was only logical. The cigarette had caused a rush and threw his brain into overload.

When his hand collided with Norah's, he felt more than he ever had before. During the millisecond of contact and with his brain working at full capacity, he could feel where all the bones in her hand lay. His pupils dilated instantaneously and he found himself analyzing her ivory skin: all the freckles and scars. Suddenly, he found himself overcome with the feeling of 'needing' and 'wanting.' He needed to feel more of her skin and he wanted to run his fingers through her hair. He wanted to hear her laugh and he needed to know what it was like to hold her. All of these thoughts and images of infatuation flooded his mind in one single second, and this sent Sherlock on a wild goose chase within his own mind.

Sherlock wasn't sure how much time had passed, but when he momentarily emerged from his brainwork, she had begun again with organizing her flat. He wondered if he should leave, but the idea of leaving seemed like a terrible thing to do, although he had no evidence to support why. The one thing he was sure of was that he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. He began to accept the idea that being strictly neighbors may not be possible.

He found himself analyzing and cataloging her body. She was roughly sixty-five inches tall, and around 145 pounds. He estimated that her measurements were 36-28-32 but he couldn't get an accurate reading through her baggy sweater and jeans. Oh god, her jeans. It was like they were painted on and Sherlock contemplated for a moment the degree of difficulty it would take for him to remove them. He shook his head. '_Focus_.' This was the time for answers.

He closed his eyes and situated her room in his mind palace. He made sure to input all of his information before losing focus again. Sherlock figured he might as well make this scientific if he was going to risk succumbing to these medieval feelings.

Recording done, he allowed himself to 'daydream' and lose himself in this feeling. Somewhere along the way, his daydream turned into a literal dream as he curled up in Norah's couch.

* * *

He was a few inches from my face. He was speaking quietly about a blood analysis he was conducting. We sat at his kitchen table, side by side. His arms were wrapped around his microscope, but his legs were intertwined with mine. While he spoke, I moved my socked foot up and down his shin, soft fabric against grainy slack. I absentmindedly took notice of his hands as his focus returned to the microscope, nimble hands, turning the knobs. I reached out to touch him. I desired to feel his bony fingers stroking my skin. He broke focus and I found myself eye to eye with his oceans, green and blue swirling together. It was the piercing stare I knew all too well, but there was something else. Hunger, like an animal lusting towards prey.

Within moments, his hands moved from their places on the microscope to my body. He gripped at the fabric of my sweater with his right hand while guiding my head towards him with his left. His eyes darted to my lips and I leaped forwards to merge them. His lips were rough, like he had been out in the cold. The kiss was long and deep; I was breathless within seconds but I didn't dare pull away. I licked at his bottom lip with my tongue and within seconds, he followed suit. His tongue flicked against mine and his hands swept across my body. After a few moments, I let out a light moan, urging him to continue. He stood, grabbed a fistful of fabric from my sweater and threw it off of me in one fluid motion. He looked at me again with hunter eyes and picked me up. As he began moving us into his bedroom, I roughly kissed and bit his neck, leaving a trail little red marks across his skin. He breathed heavily in my hair.

Within a second of entering the room, I was thrown onto the bed with him pinned on top of me. His curls danced across my forehead and I wasted no time unbuttoning his silky, purple dress shirt. He kissed my neck, and made his way to my ear, nibbling in ways that sent shivers across my body. Finished with the shirt, I occupied my mouth with his again. While still kissing, he lifted my torso up and unhooked my bra with ease. Things began to pick up. He massaged my breast while sucking my neck and subtly pressing his pelvis against mine. He made his way from my neck to my nipple, but still continued to massage. I softly moaned between breaths and he began to handle me more aggressively. He moved a hand to the button on my jeans and stripped them off when I nodded, unable to speak, granting him permission. He moved his mouth back onto mine, but he kept his hand at my pelvis, teasing me. I reached down and unbuttoned his trousers, which he then shrugged off. His deep green boxers were then exposed, and I wasted no time shoving them down his legs. He followed suit and ripped my underwear off. Suddenly, there was an urgent feeling in the air and we leapt at each other, stripping away the remaining inhibitions. He was on top of me with my legs around him and he was inching forwards. Locking eyes, I was begging him for it and his eyes looked desperate for it as well. He began to lean into me. _Oh god_.

And then my phone began to buzz, waking me.


	8. Chapter 8

**As promised, here is Chapter 8. It's the longest one so far.  
I may not be able to update for at least a week because I will be away from my computer and doing college things. I promise I will update as soon as I can. Feel free to message me on tumblr or tweet at me on twitter if you're curious about the progress of my writing (contact information is on my profile).**  
**As always, it means so much to me that you're reading my story (although I don't own any of the copyrighted things). Thank you so so so so so so much!**

* * *

I awoke with a start, not recognizing the ceiling above me. I quickly silenced my phone's buzz while mentally shaking the dream from my mind. Sitting up, my panic ebbed away when I began to recognize my surroundings. I smiled, remembering that I no longer resided in America, but my smile faded once I caught sight of my couch through the open doorway.

Sherlock was still fast asleep. I lit up my phone screen again, checking the time. It was around eleven in the morning. Was this normal for him?

I swung myself off the bed and ducked into the bathroom. I busied myself with my normal routine, but I couldn't busy my mind. What was I supposed to do with the man in my flat? Was I supposed to wake him? Or should I just leave him there again?

I got dressed and fixed my sleek hair into a ponytail, ready for a simple day of shopping. I needed to pick up food and a few items for my flat.

I made my way to the doorway, stopping briefly to survey my sleeping guest. His mouth was cracked open, and his chest was slowly rising and falling, but his breath was quiet. His eyes were moving around his sockets, a sign I took to mean he was dreaming. I shivered for a moment, recalling my own dream once again, but I shoved my thoughts away. Now was not the time to fantasize about Sherlock Holmes.

He seemed so peaceful. I decided to leave him. He was a tenant of my aunt's. What was he going to do, rob my empty flat? The most valuable things in the flat were the sentimental objects I valued. I ripped off the top to my pack of cigarettes and wrote him a note, in case he woke before I was back. I quickly made my way out the door.

"Norah?" I heard my aunt ask, hearing my door click shut.

I met her at her open doorway. "Good morning!"

"Hello, dear. Would you like some breakfast?" She led me into her kitchen.

"Oh, it's okay. I was on my way to the store anyway."

"No, you can't go to the market on an empty stomach. Let me just whip you up an egg."

The idea made my stomach growl. "Thank you," I said, realizing my hunger.

"Why don't you go upstairs and ask if the boys need to go to the market as well? It might be easier for someone to go with you your first time," she said, while heating up a pan. "Safer," she added as an afterthought.

"Sure." I left her flat and made my way upstairs. I knocked lightly at the wood door.

"Hello Norah!" John said brightly as he opened the door. He was still in his pajamas, but he was alert. He had been up for a while, most likely eating breakfast in front of the television I could hear in the background.

"Morning! Did you need anything from the store? I'm in need of some groceries."

"Yes, actually. Would you like some company?" He asked, smiling.

I returned the smile. "It would be much appreciated," I laughed. "I'm just going to eat some breakfast with Aunt Martha and then I'll be ready."

"I'll go and get changed."

A mere fifteen minutes later, John and I were on our way to the market. It was a cloudy day out and I wrapped myself tighter in my overcoat.

"We can take a cab if you're too cold," John said, looking concerned.

"No, I'm okay. I'm just used to living in a desert climate. I need to get acclimatized if I'm going to survive the winter," I joked.

John chuckled and we kept to our walking. Although it was midday, it didn't seem as though London was too populated. I looked around, gazing fondly at my new environment, but I suddenly felt like there was someone watching us. I checked behind us and saw a black town car driving slowly. John followed my gaze and stopped walking. He huffed and he immediately took a fighting took a couple of steps in the direction of the car and then turned towards me. "Come on. Mycroft probably wants to meet you."

"Mycroft?" I questioned. I didn't like the idea of climbing into a strange car, but would I rather go on this escapade with John than chance grocery shopping by myself?

John saw my hesitation and gestured towards the car. "Don't worry. It's safe. He's practically the British government."

Once again, John's warm smile reassured me. I'm normally not a person who trusts this early on in a friendship (_is that what this was turning into?_), but he made it easy. It was like you could see him clearly. This wasn't an act; John was a genuinely, good-hearted person and that was it. He wasn't nice for the reward of being appreciated. He was the kind of man who truly wanted to help people. I allowed him to lead me to the car, and I blushed when he opened the car door for me. He was a sweetheart and he wasn't even trying.

The car ride was longer than I had anticipated. John seemed completely at ease, as though this was a normal occurrence for him. I still had some residual nervousness, so I mostly kept my eyes focused on the London buildings we were passing. It didn't help my anxiety that there was a woman seated with us, but she seemed to be the same level of lax as John. The tint on the windows kept the backseat shaded, but I could see the woman's face clearly. The phone she held in her hands illuminated her features in a bright blue light. It seemed as though she was constantly texting, but how could someone text for twenty minutes straight? And who was on the other end of the conversation?

While I was contemplating the long-term effects of extended cell phone usage, the car came to a stop. I had zoned-out while looking out the window, and I had stopped taking notice of my surroundings. As I exited the car, I realized we were in an abandoned parking garage. 'Perfect place to be killed.' Panic began to flood in and looked to John for reassurance. He still seemed relaxed, but there was something else. Annoyance? It seemed so out of character for him. He began to quickly advance, deeper into the parking garage. I hesitated, but once again chose to follow him.

"I thought we were past all this secrecy, Mycroft," John spoke, to no one, it seemed. He stopped under a well-lit isle and I stood to his right, slightly behind him. I was on guard, and feeling much more nervous than I liked to admit.

"I'm sorry John. You know I worry about him." A figure poked out from the shadows and began to walk towards us.

"Then pick up the phone and check in on him! I can't be the middleman between you two any longer," he scolded. Yes, I was correct; John was annoyed.

Mycroft stopped walking once he reached the row of overhead lights that John and I were standing under. He was tall and bulky, but he carried himself lightly. This man possessed power and he held himself up to a pedestal. His body language said it all: confident, important, and intimidating. I found it odd that he was clutching an umbrella with his right hand and he was using it as a cane. Did he use this as a prop for further intimidating people? Did the cane double as a weapon? I looked towards John for guidance, but he wasn't much help. He was just getting more agitated with each beat of silence.

"I am not your brother's babysitter. Nor am I your spy," John spat.

"Sherlock has been spiraling out of control lately. Don't pretend like you haven't noticed," Mycroft said coldly.

Whoa, wait. '_Mycroft was Sherlock's BROTHER?!_' I had forgotten my previous anxieties and my brain was going into overdrive. I looked to Mycroft for physical similarities between him and Sherlock. I studied his few behaviors and compared it to my mind's catalogue of Sherlock's behaviors. The idea that these two were related seemed to make sense, but it's not something I would've known on my own.

"Would you rather I upped your surveillance?" Mycroft continued.

John glared at him with a look of distain and seemed to deflate. "He's bored. We haven't had any cases. You know how he gets."

"I can only assume this means he hasn't been sleeping. Have there been any danger nights lately?"

John spoke with less venom, "Last I checked, this will be his third or fourth day of no sleep, but no danger nights yet." He sighed, "He doesn't listen to me when I try to correct his habits. I'm a doctor. I know best when it comes to his health."

'_But Sherlock had slept_,' I reminded myself. I spoke up, "Sherlock slept last night. He's actually probably still asleep right now."

Mycroft took this opportunity to pay attention to my existence. "You must be Ms. Hudson. Mycroft Holmes," he introduced.

"Norah, please." We shook hands. I wasn't sure if I should be worried that he knew my name already. It seemed as though he knew all. He wasn't even fazed by my knowledge on Sherlock's sleeping schedule.

John, however, looked as though he didn't know what to think. "Wha... How could you know that?" he questioned. "I don't even know where Sherlock is."

"Uhm, well..." I hesitated, knowing how weird my answer was going to sound. "He's sleeping in my flat. On my couch."

John still looked puzzled. "Sorry, what?"

"Last night, he popped in to apologize. We talked for a bit but then he, sort of... shut down, if you know what I mean. He fell asleep while I was setting up my flat and I decided to just let him sleep. He seemed exhausted."

John's expression didn't change, but he didn't ask any more questions about Sherlock. There were a few moments of silence before Mycroft spoke. "He hasn't taken to anyone this quickly since you, John."

Now it was my turn to be confused. "What do you mean?"

Mycroft continued, "My brother is antisocial, to put it lightly. He isn't the kind to seek out companionship. He only has a small circle of people whom he tolerates. It seems as though you may be the newest addition."

I furrowed my eyebrows. "He just fell asleep on my couch. That doesn't mean he is adding me to his inner circle."

"He apologized to you. He physically went down to your flat. He fell asleep in _your_ flat and has stayed asleep. Sherlock doesn't just '_do_' any of that," John voiced, joining the discussion again.

Mycroft nodded and directed his attention towards me. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked sternly.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "He's my neighbor! What are you trying to get at?"

He waved his umbrella and dropped his voice to a caring tone. "I am just taking my brother's best interests into mind. This wouldn't be the first time a beautiful woman caught his eye. Although last time, he gave her the ammunition to bring England to its knees." I gasped in shock. Mycroft smiled at my reaction and continued, "Maybe it would be best if you severed these ties. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."

"Alright, well, this is the end of our conversation," John said. He took a soldier's stance, protecting me from Mycroft's piercing stare (which, compared between brothers, made Sherlock's seem tame). "Let's go, Norah."

"Goodbye, John. It was lovely to meet you, Norah." Mycroft's tone gave me goosebumps and made the hair on the back of my neck stick up.

John led me to the black car again and as I climbed in, I took one last look at the parking garage. Mycroft stood still under the fluorescent lights, watching us enter the car. I shivered again, unable to stop the involuntary reaction.

I sincerely hoped this would be the last I saw of Mycroft Holmes.


End file.
